"Preferences?"
"That's right. I prefer to be accepted for myself. I prefer not to dictate the behavior of others or have them dictate to me."
"What's that got to do with Lewis?"
"She thinks he's entertaining. I do not. In addition, I find his sudden appearance highly suspect."
"Really," I said. I was reluctant to communicate my own suspicions about William unless Henry voiced them first.
Henry went on. "I believe she spoke to Lewis on the phone and he flew out in response."
"Where'd you get that?"
"He didn't seem the least bit surprised at finding her here, which means he knew in advance. And how could he have known unless she told him herself?"
"He could have heard from someone else."
"Who?"
"Rosie."
"Rosie doesn't chat with Lewis. Why would she talk to him? She barely talks to me."
"William, then. He could have mentioned it in passing."
"I see you're determined to protect her."
"All I'm doing is injecting a note of reality. No one's plotting behind your back. Well, Lewis, maybe, but not Mattie. "You know better."
"You're implying I'm paranoid, but this is not my imagination. Mat-tie's intention was to come for breakfast and then drive straight home. Lewis suggested something off the top of his head and now she's delaying her return. Yes or no?"
"No."
"Yes."
"Let's not argue. I don't think there's anything afoot, but you do, so let's drop the subject. My only point… well, I don't even know what my only point is. My only point is don't give up on her. And that's all I'm going to say."
"Good. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to my kitchen and my little-old-lady ways."
I went to the office and locked myself in. Truly, it was more restful to ponder crime than human beings in love. Here I was trying to talk Henry into the very thing I was trying to talk Reba out of, and neither one would listen. Then again, why would they? I've bungled every relationship I've ever been in so it's not like my advice is worth much.
I opened the window in hopes of creating a little cross-ventilation. The thermometer outside on the window frame read 74 degrees. It felt hotter than that to me. I sat down, put my feet up on the desk, and rocked back in my swivel chair. I studied my surroundings with a sense of discontent. The windows were so dingy I could hardly see out. Grime on the windowsill. Dust on my fake plant. My desk was covered with junk and the trash can was filled to capacity. I still had boxes I hadn't unpacked since I moved in and that was five months ago. What a slattern I was.
I got up and went into my tiny kitchen, where I scrounged under the sink for a bucket, a sponge, and a quart of virulent yellow liquid that resembled toxic waste. I spent the morning scrubbing surfaces, vacuuming, dusting, shining, polishing, unpacking, and putting things away. By noon, while I was hot, tired, and sweaty, my mood had improved. But not for long.
There was a knock on the door. I opened it to find a courier standing on my doorstep with an envelope in hand. I signed for it and opened it, pulling out a check from Nord for $1,250 in response to the invoice I'd sent him the day before. The handwritten note that accompanied the payment indicated the $250 bonus was for a job well done.
I wasn't so sure. Psychologically, the bonus put me in his debt and triggered another round of peeps from my conscience, which I'd thought to pacify with all the cleaning I'd done. I was right back in the thick of my debate. Should I tell Reba what was going on or should I not? More important, should I bring her father into the loop? His single admonition – to which I'd agreed – was to keep him informed of any backsliding on her part. This hadn't happened yet (as far as I knew), but if I told her about Beck and Onni, what would she do? She was going to crash and burn. And if I didn't tell her and she somehow got wind of it – which was not out of the question in a town this size- – much crashing and burning would ensue anyway. She'd begged me not to tell her father about Beck, but Reba wasn't the one who was paying my bills. Witness this check.
I tried to think of an overriding principle that might apply – some moral code that would guide my decision. I couldn't think of one. Then I wondered if I had morals or principles of any kind, and that made me feel worse.
The phone rang. I picked it up and said, "What." rather more rudely than I'd intended.
Cheney laughed. "You sound stressed."